And the rest of his face was just—goddamn it. Strong bone structure, stubble that said he hadn't bothered with a razor indays, and a faint scar cutting through his left eyebrow that my brain had no business noticing.
Don't. Do not.
He paused at the threshold, face twisted with regret.
"I'm truly sorry," he said, voice low, sincere. "I didn't mean to?—"
"Out," I snapped.
He stepped onto the porch.
I slammed the door in his face.
Then I locked it.
Then I checked the lock.
Then I leaned my forehead against the door and tried to breathe.
My hands were shaking.
My towel suddenly felt like nothing.
My cabin, my space, the only place on this property that was supposed to be off-limits, and a stranger had been standing in it.
It didn't matter that he'd apologized.
It didn't matter that he looked genuinely horrified.
He had been inside my space.
I was supposed to be safe here.
I grabbed sweatpants and a long-sleeve shirt, yanked them on with angry hands, and pulled my hair into a tighter knot like it could hold me together.
Then I threw the door open and stepped outside.
Graham was still there, standing on the porch with both hands shoved into his jacket pockets, looking like a man waiting to be executed.
Hank was in the yard, walking up fast, his expression already apologetic.
"Rose," Hank started.
I held up a hand. "No."
Hank stopped short.
I locked my eyes on Graham. "You do not step foot in my cabin again. Ever."
Graham nodded, eyes serious. "Understood."
Hank cleared his throat. "He's… he's one of the clients. Arrived early with an Uber. I told him to wait by the main house but he?—"
"I thought this was—" Graham began.
"Stop," I cut in, voice flat. "I don't care what you thought."
His jaw tightened like that hit, but he didn't argue.
